


tied up (in you)

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Series: marked up [2]
Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: AU, Bondage, Breathplay, M/M, PA AU, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack finds a way to mark his territory. Rhys is (mostly) not complaining.</p>
<p>Continues immediately after <i>marked up</i>, so reading that one first is recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tied up (in you)

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes a HUGE debt to [michaelandthegodsquad](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, who identified exactly where and why the first draft went off the rails. Her advice was invaluable in reworking it; I hope it does not disappoint. Any remaining mistakes or miscalculations are definitely all mine.

It’s not like Rhys has never thought about Handsome Jack _like that_. He’s not blind. He’s also not _obsessed_ , no matter what Vaughn says. (Although Vaughn does say Rhys has gotten a lot better since he became Handsome Jack’s personal assistant. Vaughn has put this down to some sort of exposure therapy; Rhys is pretty sure that it only proves that Vaughn _doesn’t know what he is talking about_.)

 

So it’s not that Rhys has never thought about it. It’s just that he never thought it would actually _happen_.

 

* * *

 

 

After Jack stops mauling his neck - which, as far as Rhys is concerned, is an awesome if unexpected turn of events - Rhys expects to be fucked right there in the conference room, maybe, or dragged to a convenient  supply closet. What he does not expect is for Jack to give his neck one last nip and take a half step back, fingers still anchored firmly in Rhys’ tie.

 

Jack appears to be eyeing his handiwork. He tugs on Rhys’ collar with his free hand, and then both hands are working up at the top of Rhys’ shirt. Before Rhys knows what’s happening there’s a sliding sensation around his neck and a _*pop*_ and Jack is stepping back with a shit-eating grin on his face. He has Rhys’ now undone tie in his hand, and when Rhys’ hand flies up to check the damage he finds the collar of his shirt undone and the buttons missing.

 

“There you go, babe, that’s a good look for you,” Jack says, as if he hasn’t just made sure that _everyone on Helios_ can see the massive bruise Rhys can feel forming on his neck.

 

That _asshole_.

 

“Now come on,” Jack says, turning toward the door. “There’s a progress report I need to yell at R&D about waiting on my desk, chop chop.”

 

Rhys is out of breath, half-hard, and sporting what is going to be a _giant hickey_ on his neck. Rhys is not sure how he’s expected to get back to work after this.

 

* * *

 

But apparently Jack _does_ expect him to get back to work after that, and on top of everything, Jack suddenly needs him at every meeting, even the ones Rhys wouldn’t normally attend. When Rhys tries to delicately inquire why his services are needed at vendor presentations, of all things, Jack just gives him an unsettlingly wide smile and says,

 

“You got some objection to being seen with me, princess?”

 

Which wasn’t what Rhys had meant _at all_ , and he’s pretty sure Jack knows it, so he sighs instead of answering and rubs his neck absently. His fingers brush the bruise and his breath hitches.

 

Jack’s grin deepens.

 

* * *

 

If people were looking at him before - and he’s still not convinced that Jack wasn’t _making that up_ , because that’s crazy talk - they’re certainly not now. Or rather, they see Rhys, and then they see the _giant hickey_ on Rhys’ neck, and they avert their eyes, speaking at the air somewhere over Rhys’ left shoulder.

 

Jack, the asshole, appears to be eating it up. He doesn’t say anything about it, thank God, but then he doesn’t really have to. The worst part is the third vendor meeting of the afternoon, where Jack apparently decides the salesman is _looking_ too much, or something, because all of a sudden Rhys has Jack’s big hand on the back of his neck, thumb resting lightly over the tender skin where his mouth had been just hours before.

 

Suddenly no one is looking in Rhys’ direction at all.

 

Rhys is trying to remember how to breathe when Jack presses his thumb down, hard, and the whole world narrows down to that point of contact.

 

Rhys doesn’t remember much of the meeting after that.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember much of the aftermath, either, except that everyone had left the room very quickly. Everyone except Jack, who had kept his hand firmly on Rhys’ neck and leaned in to breathe “come home with me,” into Rhys’ ear, devoid for once of any teasing.

 

And Rhys had breathed back “yes,” and now they’re here, the door to Jack’s penthouse still sliding shut and Jack has Rhys pressed against the wall again and Rhys is not complaining _at all_.

 

Rhys tilts his head back as Jack goes for the other side of his neck. “Is this, fuck-” he gasps as Jack gets a leg between his. “Is this some kind of fixation for you?”

 

He can feel it against his neck as Jack smiles, and then Jack is kissing him hard, lips and teeth and almost desperate ferocity. Jack’s hands are on Rhys’ hips, pulling him forward and encouraging him to grind down on Jack’s thigh, and Rhys groans into Jack’s mouth as lightning shoots up his spine.

 

“I already told you, you belong to me, kiddo,” Jack says right up against Rhys’ mouth. “Now _everybody_ knows it.”

 

God, he _knew_ that’s what Jack was doing, with the shirt and the hand on the neck and the _everything_ , and he should be angry but to hear Jack say it out loud makes him moan instead. Jack takes this as encouragement and pulls Rhys upright, walking him backwards through the apartment.

 

“Bedroom, sugar,” Jack murmurs. “The wall is great, but I’m going to need _room_ for the things I’m going to do to you.” Rhys can’t help the way he shivers at that. Jack makes short work of (what’s left of) Rhys’ shirt and Rhys reciprocates, tearing off layers until his hands settle on bare skin.

 

Jack’s bed looks big enough for three people - and knowing Handsome Jack’s reputation, it has probably seen at least that many at a time - but all Rhys cares about is that it’s here and he’s being pushed down on it. The last of Rhys’ clothes lie abandoned in the doorway, and as he pulls himself up toward the head of the bed Jack follows, stripped to the waist.

 

Jack plants his knees on either side of Rhys' hips and wraps his hands around Rhys' wrists. He tugs, and Rhys follows Jack's direction until he's stretched out on his back, Jack looming over him and pinning his wrists over his head with one big hand.

 

“I want you to keep your hands right here, you good with that, sweetheart?”

 

Rhys is good with that. Rhys is so good with that he can feel his dick stiffen further at the thought of being held down, of being fucked but not allowed to _touch_ , of just taking whatever Jack gives him.

 

“I’m, uh.” He swallows and tries again. “ Yeah, I’m good with that.”

 

Jack grins down at him. “Yeah you are. I’m thinking, though, that you might need a little help.” He pulls something out of his pocket, and _God dammit Jack_ , it’s Rhys’ own tie. Rhys involuntarily flexes his hands against Jack’s grip, just a little. Jack presses down harder, and Rhys sucks in a breath.

 

“Fuck, yes. Do it, come on - “ he’s aware that he’s babbling, but it’s distant, unimportant against the slide of fabric drawing tight around his wrists. Jack fixes one end to the headboard and tucks the other into Rhys’ palm. Rhys’ fingers close around it.

 

“There you are,” Jack croons, eyes dark. “I could keep you just like this, couldn’t I? Tied up in my bed, where no one but me could get their hands on you.” Rhys doesn’t want to admit, even to himself, how very much he wants to say _yes_ to that; instead he arches against the bed, feeling his arms pull taut, and watches Jack watch him with eyes gone hot and heavy.

 

Jack kicks his pants off, and there’s some rummaging in the bedside table, then Jack’s fingers are slick between Rhys’ legs. When the first finger slips in, Rhys’ breath rushes out, but soon he’s rocking down on Jack’s fingers. Jack twists his fingers just right, tearing a sound that Rhys isn’t proud of out of him. Jack seems to like that, though, because he does it again. Too soon Jack’s fingers are slipping out, and Rhys whines a little at the loss despite himself.

 

There's the crinkle of a wrapper, then Jack is lifting Rhys' hips and pushing in, blunt pressure giving way to a drag against sensitive skin. It’s slow, too slow, and when Jack stops Rhys almost screams in frustration. He squirms, trying to get Jack deeper, get _something_ more. Jack just laughs and adjusts his grip.

 

"You're that hungry for my cock, huh baby?" He thrusts shallowly and any retort Rhys might have had dies in a strangled, choked off sound.

 

Jack definitely seems to like those noises because the next thrust practically drives Rhys through the mattress. Jack sets a brutal rhythm, like he’s got something to prove, but Rhys isn’t complaining, especially as the initial burn gives way to a spreading warmth.

 

Rhys throws his head back, arching into Jack’s hands. This is good - better than good, better than anything he imagined - but he needs _more_. He’s trying to use the limited leverage he has to find a better angle when he feels the first touch, feather-light, against his neck. Jack’s fingers ghost over the mark he left on Rhys’ neck, and Rhys finds himself leaning into it, encouraging Jack's hands on him.

 

Jack doesn't need much encouragement, because the light touch becomes firm, then firmer. Rhys sucks in a breath against the pressure, feeling Jack’s fingers flex around his throat. Distantly he thinks that this is too much, that this _should_ be too much, but he feels alight, caught between the pull on his wrists and Jack’s dick driving into him. The firm pressure of Jack’s hands feels like the only thing keeping him together, like he might fly apart at any second if not for fingers digging into his flank and a broad hand on this throat.

 

“I am _tired_ , “ Jack grunts out, “of seeing,”  - thrust - “other people’s fingerprints on you.” He sounds _wrecked_ , voice deeper than Rhys has ever heard it. He can’t help the way he thrills at Jack’s words, even though he shouldn’t - there is so much here that he _shouldn’t_ \- but he does, and he feels it all the way down to his toes. He could almost come just like this, a hand on his neck and heavy words ringing in his ears -

 

The pressure at his throat is suddenly gone, and Rhys barely has a second to be disappointed - and no time at all to be surprised that he _is_ disappointed - before Jack’s hand is on Rhys’ dick, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, and _God_ , Rhys was not built to withstand this, doesn’t even want to. It seems like only a few seconds before _not enough_ becomes _holy shit_ and Rhys is coming before he knows what’s happening. He barely notices when Jack follows shortly after, stiffening against him before slumping to the side.

 

Rhys comes back to himself with Jack draped partially over him. The man is not light, but Rhys doesn’t mind so much in this moment. He tries to stretch surreptitiously, reveling in the points of soreness where Jack’s fingers dug bruises into his legs and generally enjoying the sensation of feeling well fucked. Jack seems to take this as a hint to move, though, and rolls off of him with a faint grumble.

 

Rhys’ fingers feel cramped shut, but he slowly peels them open, sighing at the feel of fabric loosening around his wrists. He brings both arms down and is trying to massage some life back into his left hand when he catches Jack staring at him - no, not at him, at his _wrist_.

 

Jack’s fingers close around the red ring on Rhys’ left wrist, covering it completely.

 

“You mark up pretty easily, don’t you, babe.” There’s something pleased in his tone, and Rhys is reminded  that this is the man who practically branded Rhys as his own and then paraded him in front of half the station.

 

“Always have,” Rhys replies warily. Maybe he should invest in a scarf.

 

Jack smiles, and there’s a promise in there that Rhys can’t look away from.

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

  
It's not like Rhys has never looked at Handsome Jack. He just never thought that Jack might be looking back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [thirtysixsavefiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
